


catching.

by Anonymous



Category: Original Work
Genre: Beating, Blow Jobs, Bondage, Cock & Ball Torture, Forced Orgasm, Gun Violence, Kidnapping, Knifeplay, M/M, Rape, Rape/Non-con Elements, Scarification, Tasers, Tattoos, Torture, the girl with the dragon tattoo inspiration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:15:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28112241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Inspiration from "The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo" by Stieg Larsson and the 2011 film adaptation directed by David Fincher. Some lines used.
Relationships: Original Male Character/Original Male Character
Comments: 8
Kudos: 30
Collections: Anonymous





	catching.

**Author's Note:**

> This has heavy, triggering elements. Readers have been warned in the tags and this is a second warning now.  
> Do not read if this matter will upset you. You will only be upsetting yourself if you ignore these warnings. Hate comments will be deleted and ignored so don't bother complaining. 
> 
> If you enjoy this story, leave a kudo, comment, or recommend it to a friend who enjoys the same subject matter.  
> Many thanks to those who encouraged and supported me while I wrote this. It took a bit and I appreciate it.

_As he sunk down, slowly, as not to drive the burn, heart pounding as though he would explode, the man below him sucked in a breath in the affirmative, to keep going. The encouragement was in his eyes, as wild as they were, and it somehow drove him to do as he wished, to push down further, all the way to the hilt, and then come back up, slowly, so achingly, deliciously slow. The muscles in his back flexed and clenched, flexed and arched into the motions, the rolling and the swooning, the gentle up and the swooshing down. Every time he went down again, the hard pierce inside, hot and sharp, sent him into soft spasms, and every breath he exhaled came through shuddered and delicate, as if he would break._

_Hands went to his hips, thumbs rubbing tender circles into his flesh. When both hands made their way past his chest and to his throat, a smile crossed his face just as he felt the squeeze._

John stares into the glass like he is falling into a trance. He does not drink; he keeps telling himself that, reminding himself, but it does not hurt to just look at it. It was a nine dollar drink, one he will take to the abandoned bathroom meant for quickies and blow jobs, and pour down the sink. Then he will crawl back home to Michael with his tail between his legs.

If Michael will even take him back.

John swallows the bitter thought and raises the glass to his lips. Not to sip. He just wants to see how long he can tempt himself. The deep, droning voice right next to him, thick, dark, and heavy like gravel stalls the thought for now.

“Want me to buy you a real drink?”

Setting down the glass with a clink, John startles and glances to the side shyly. Dark eyes and a wild, reckless smile flash at him. The tinted light in the irises spells danger and for a moment John manages a daring smile back.

_The smile caught Michael off guard; it was infectious, perfect for a drop dead gorgeous man like John. When he extended his hand, Michael was tempted to kiss the knuckle and then his lips but of course he took it, shook it warmly, and led him to the table._

_“I’m sorry I’m late,” he gushed. “I was looking forward to this all week.”_

_Me too, Michael wanted to say but he settled for a soft smile and then, “Get whatever you want, I’m paying.”_

_John’s smile dropped to mild concern. “You really don’t have to do that. I think the fifteen hundred up front was more than enough.”_

_“Nonsense,” Michael huffed and then he realized how silly he sounded. “Technically, you’re my guest, so I want to be the perfect host.”_

_The hand slid across the table, and John’s smirk with it made Michael blush. “But it’s_ my _job to keep the customer satisfied.” The blush deepened. Suddenly, he seemed at a loss for words, stammering over his sentences, opening and closing his mouth like a fish. John chuckled. “You’re cute when flustered. Do I make you nervous?”_

_That he could answer without hesitation. “Yes,” Michael confessed sheepishly._

_Thumb brushed over knuckles, soft as a kiss. John hummed, expression content and calculating. “This might be even more fun than I expected.”_

_Michael did not doubt that._

It was fun, John thinks bitterly, fingering the rim of his glass while feeling the heat of this man’s stare. Fun had been an understatement. Fun turned into a trip to New York. Chocolate covered strawberries and room service. Fucking with the curtains open in a penthouse, pressed up against a window. Fun after that came deep conversations late at night. Randomly bumping into one another in the city and Michael daring to ask for a real date. John daring to accept. Love in three and a half rooms. Fun became commitment. John wishes it never became resentment.

“What’s your name?” he asks. He does not touch the drink.

“Warner.”

There is that gravel again. Heavy wheels on asphalt. The low droning of his voice entrances John. “Just Warner?” he inquires.

“Just Warner.” The man smiles showing teeth, the same wild smile when first introduced.

‘Just Warner’ stops being a gentleman after that, and John lets him. He lets him take him out back where the air is cold and the walls of the building are damp and dingy. It smells like earth and mold, and John wrinkles his nose, wincing when his back hits the brick wall. Then Warner kisses him and all he can smell is him, musk, sweat, and sweet cologne. It is a harsh kiss, sharp and rough, and John stumbles back, eyes open. Part of him wonders if he should have politely declined.

Teeth drag across his lower lip, and he whines softly. They nip at the side of his neck, and lips envelope the bruised skin, sucking and caressing and biting as if to form a wound. It hurts but John does not mind the dull pain; he almost likes it and clutches Warner’s jacket fervently. Warner’s hands are elsewhere, one gripping his hip and the other moving stealthily to slide down his pants. John’s closed eyes fly open.

“Wait…” he starts, but either has no time to finish or doesn’t allow himself to. His senses are on overdrive and the world seems to spin in his delirium.

Warner does not hear him or chooses not to and pulls him out, offering slow, deliberate strokes that make John’s eyes nearly roll back in his head. He cannot think of what he wanted to say earlier; no words form to make coherent thought, so he lets it happen. Warner’s hand moves even more insistently, and John’s breath quickens and catches in his throat, followed by a sob-like moan. He feels himself beginning to break, an unexpected sensation churning in his gut. Before John can stop himself, he shudders through the first wave of his orgasm, mindlessly rocking into Warner’s hand and stiffening when it soon becomes too much.

John’s vision blackens for just two seconds, enough for him to gently fall back against the wall, blissfully winded. With one last sultry kiss at his jaw, Warner brings his hand up to John’s mouth, eyes lidded. John gets the hint and dutifully cleans his spunk from his fingers. A low, pleased grunt breaks from the back of Warner’s throat when he’s finished, and with his free hand, he presses down firmly at the back of John’s head, getting him to his knees. Stiffening at first, John’s guts churn for a different reason this time, but he obeys, allowing his shins to reach the damp earth below. A few feel away is a dumpster he had not spotted before, and he almost expects a rat to scurry out from behind it. John grimaces to himself, then hears the familiar sound of someone unzipping their fly.

Warner’s length brushes his cheek that John nearly recoils at the lewd touch. It is not that he does not wish to reciprocate; John does not think he even wanted to be dragged outside for a quick hand job in the first place. He wonders if he was that angry with Michael to do this. Guilt mixes with his reluctance, and John swallows hard before parting his lips.

_The tips of Michael’s fingers teased down his tummy, up his forearm, stroked his bicep. He knew it was him, smiled, and remembered where he was. John inhaled deep, stirred with a sleepy moan, and opened his eyes. Michael stared adoringly down at him. His face was handsome and soft, morning stubble hardly showing around his jaw and chin, and his smile shone through a dark forest of green eyes._

_“You stayed.” The honeyed, husky voice gave more honey with the kiss John received. “That’s a nice change. Unexpected, but nice.”_

_“Should I go?” John frowned, starting to sit up, only to be met with Michael’s hands at his chest._

_“No, no, no!” Michael caught a hand, thumbed over the fingers, kissed the knuckles, something he always wanted to do since he met him and kept the hand close to his lips as he continued, “No, I want you to stay. I…” He kissed the palm, and John felt a million butterflies flood his stomach at once. “…I want you to_ stay _.”_

_John really sat up this time, gazing at the man currently adoring and worshipping him with his mouth and with his eyes. “Really.” He did not phrase it as a question, more of disbelief than anything, and stared at Michael with wide, wondering eyes._

_In a brief flash of panic, Michael began to stammer, possibly backtrack, take back his words in some way, tell him he did not necessarily mean it like_ that _. John smiled softly at his expense, testing a hand on his forearm and placing a kiss on his cheek._

_“Can we talk about it later?”_

John coughs once, praying that Warner did not hear his rather repressed and unyielding noises. The only touch he had received was an occasional tug of his wavy, blonde hair and a heavy curse following when he finally had managed to swallow. The bitter taste is unfamiliar to his tongue, and he nearly gags after the cough, but a satisfied grunt from above tells him he at least pleased the recipient.

“Fucking amazing,” Warner breathes raggedly with an extra sharp tug that John nearly grimaces at and ducks out of the way. Instead he smiles, wipes his mouth, and stands, ignoring the stiff joints in his knees. When he finally gets to his feet, he is met with a kiss, much softer this time. “Thank you. For that.”

Not like he had much of a choice.

Rather than offend with his thoughts, John returns the kiss and then backs away. “I should probably be getting home anyway.” No matter how he tries to avoid the expectant look, their eyes meet regardless, and John feels himself redden. Suddenly he cannot wait to leave.

“Already?” Warner’s voice is soft and insistent. “Sure, you don’t want to have another drink…” He stops, searching for the right words, and John almost holds his breath. “…with me?” For a moment, he very nearly appears taken with him that he looks like he could beg. Beg to spend the rest of the night with him. John starts for a brief instant, gaping at the sudden, warm, and earnest expression on his face, and he almost relents, almost feels comfortable to go back inside with him. He remains firm, though.

“I can’t,” he smiles. “I do have to get home, I’m sorry.” Home to Michael. Home to confront and make peace. To confess the events of tonight. And hope to god he takes him back. John brushes the thought into the recesses of his mind.

“Do you have a car?”

“I’ll just grab a taxi,” John replies dismissively.

Warner persists. “At least, let me drive you home.”

John hesitates. It is forward, how much Warner wants to spend time with him after a blowjob. He should be nervous. He wants to be. But right now, Warner suddenly looks like he could not harm a fly, and John remembers why he was in desperate need of some company, even the company of a complete stranger. He probably should not allow himself to get in the car of said stranger; his mother always taught him that, but here is Warner, who made him come, kindly offering, looking concerned even. He feels he cannot just keep refusing.

“Okay,” John gives in finally, with a deep sigh. “Thank you.”

Warner visibly breathes a sigh of relief, and John silently tells himself that he is doing this to bring him home safe.

When John climbs into the passenger seat, used car smell wafts through his nostrils, but he ignores it; it is a normal smell, cigarettes, food, whatever. John’s nose wrinkles unconsciously regardless as he settles and puts on his seatbelt. Warner slides in next to him, flashing him a small smile, and puts the key in the ignition. The car rumbles to life, like the gravel of his voice, droning and low. “Address?”

Nope. “It’s close by,” John murmurs. “I’ll just show you.”

Shrugging stiffly, Warner begins to back out, and John stays focused on the scenic view from outside his window. Beyond the lights of city, it is pitch black, night falling over the wake of something vibrant and alive as if to shadow it. Further beyond that though, there is nothing, nothing for miles. John feels about as small as a speck of dust, floating aimlessly in a void of dark. Occasionally he tells Warner where to turn, but then he slumps in his seat and lets his mind wander for the few moments he has before the next turn. Nothing.

Nothing but a stranger and the low, monotonous drone of the engine whirring his ears.

John slides further in his seat and drifts.

_John watched Michael slide further in the sudsy bath water until he had completely submerged. Steam rose from the tub, and John sunk down so that is was level with his chin. He could not quite remember the last time he had a bath, a good bath that left him blissed and refreshed, and he would have taken his chances with this one, but something in the forefront of his mind told him he would not catch it; just wishful thinking. It was imprinted on his mind as much as Michael’s need to say it. He almost submerged himself with the notion to hold his breath for as long as his lungs would allow. Instead he swallowed the anxious feeling down and flicked at the water lazily._

_“Come here.” His voice was even, the opposite of the turmoil in his brain, and Michael came back up, eyeing him curiously. John crooked his finger at him and managed a coy smile._

_When Michael had settled in his arms, John held him tight and willed the thoughts away, willed him not to speak. As much as he had agreed to ‘talk later’, he really had not meant it. Why should he have to? Why should they have to bring it up only to come to the crossroads of what, he supposed, was their relationship? He was worried Michael wanted something that he was not ready to give up. John chided himself over these worries, however; if this was turning into what he assumed was more than a primal connection, John wondered if he would be willing to accept it. For Michael. For himself._

_Laying in the tub with him now, all he wanted to do was stifle those ruminations, distract both Michael and himself. It was easy with his hands. Michael always melted in his embrace at the mere touch as if he had been touch-starved for as long as he had lived. Michael moaned at the hands smoothed down his chest and the searing kiss pressed just below his jaw. John appreciated the noises and continued further down, keeping his mouth trained on his neck while his hands worked him easy._

_“John…”_

_John hummed in reply but refused to stop, mouth grinning against his flesh at the plea that came after._

_“Don’t waste it.”_

_“Then where should you put it?” John purred._

_Michael whined softly. “Inside you…”_

_“In my mouth?” John moved around so that they faced each other. This time, Michael hummed thoughtfully as if he was considering it. “Elsewhere…?”_

_Michael really considered that as he nodded, and John chuckled. “How do you want me?” He turned around, moving to the edge of the tub and leaning against it, and offered him a show. Naked and wet. And naked. Seemed as though he succeeded in being the ultimate distraction._

_Michael’s husky voice came through in his ear, lips pressed against his shoulder. “I want to do so many things to you right now. But I have something I need to ask first.”_

_Almost._

At one point, Warner places his hand on his knee, a soft and easy gesture. John starts out of his thoughts and looks to him hesitantly, only to receive an even smile in return. Warner is calm at the wheel, calm for the five long seconds he takes to glance at him, too calm. Much too calm. John passes a silent, anxious smile back at him and then returns his gaze out the window once more. Somehow he can still feel those eyes on him, burning holes into his flesh. The same cold, calm, and calculating expression when the cold, damp gravel met his knees.

Outside the bright of the city trailed far behind them, farther and farther, going, going, and gone, out of sight for good.

They are going the wrong way.

John sits up abruptly and the hand is gone from his knee. Stilling instantly, he wonders if Warner noticed the change. The man’s eyes remain on the road, face grim and grave, hands on the wheel. His knuckles are white, and John stares before he realizes. They are going the wrong way, and Warner knows it. He knows it the minute John figured it out and when he removed his hand from his knee, the innocence of such a gesture out like a puff of smoke.

John’s first instinct is to jump out of the passenger side of the car until he remembers and mentally screams.

His seatbelt is on. Of all the times to ignore the safety of the rules of the road, he foolishly chose not to. If he were to remove it, Warner would ask, most definitely, what the fuck he was doing. Even if he succeeds in eluding him and manages to take his chance to jump out of a moving car, he risks injuring himself, hardly getting far enough away, even perhaps fatally. He imagines cracking his skull open on the asphalt, his last moments of Warner’s heavy boots clunking towards him before all fuzzes, fades, and goes black and he feels the sharp crack. His next instinct is to take hold of the wheel, driving them both into a tree or something somewhere, and apprehending Warner in his own ineptitude and shock while he makes his escape. He sizes the man up and regrettably accepts the disadvantage with an inward groan of frustration and growing apprehension. He’d be dead before he ever managed to grip the steering wheel.

John swallows hard, offers a small, side-ways glance to Warner, and then swallows again. There is a large, heavy lump in his throat that will not go down, and he feels his face fall heavier. His lower lip trembles at the realization that if he wishes to find a more fruitful way of escape that leaves him in one piece, he would not be leaving this car any time soon. He resents that this may be his only, perfect chance, but he does not risk it. Perhaps Warner still thinks he does not know. Perhaps he should keep it that way. Even so, John’s heart thumps wildly in his chest, so hard and wild that if he looks down, he sees it vibrate up and down in the motion of his hot, pumping blood through the valve.

They continue to drive, and John continues to tremble and brood over the situation, wishing the car would stop and also wishing it wouldn’t for when it does, he dreads to think what would occur next. The roads grow flat, the terrain more desolate; John swears to himself that the last point of civilization he saw was more than five to ten miles back. Finally his wishes are accepted as well as denied, and the pounding of his heart beats even more faster now, like a hummingbird once the car comes to a slow, ominous stop.

John’s breaths come out shaky and raspy when he feels eyes on him. He turns to Warner, and Warner stares right back in even, yet intense repose as ever. As calm as he looks though, John catches cold in those eyes.

He hears himself say in a small voice, “Why are we here?”

Warner shrugs. “I thought you could stop by with me and chat for a while.”

The hair on the back of John’s neck stands on end. “This isn’t where I live.”

There is silence, colder than Warner’s eyes and sharper than icicles. John feels them, feels them prick the tips of his fingers, feels his neck and cheeks and ears flush and then cool. Then he hears the voice, deep, droning, and dark. Darker than tinted glass, it growls, “Get the fuck out of the car.”

John’s fingernails rap against the armrests until he reluctantly obeys. He could make a run for it now. It would take precious seconds for Warner to come around to the other side. John lurches forward until he feels the large hand on the back of his neck, moving down, digging into his shoulder blade. Warner climbs over with him, and when John inspects the contents of those eyes, he sees amusement, calculating everything. John’s heart sinks.

“Inside.”

Ahead is a two story house, built for “pillars of the community”, inhabited by “Leatherface”. John cannot seem to decide which would be worse. He realizes he will probably find out later and shudders as he is shoved inside by the same hands that pressed his mouth to a heavy cock. His nose wrinkles unconsciously, but Warner keeps him moving before he can ruminate about the series of events just twenty minutes ago.

Twenty minutes ago he would have been home, begging Michael for a fresh start. They would have forgiven each other, made love, gone to sleep peacefully in their three and a half rooms. The lump grows bigger, and John begins to wonder if he’ll ever see him again.

“Why am I here?” he tries again.

Warner snaps his fingers to a seat by the table in the middle of an old-fashioned looking kitchen. One word. “Sit.”

It all happens so fast, John even feels the room spin that he accepts he must sit down. He lets out the breath he had been holding, softly for even the slightest noise he worries would be the last he makes. He instantly feels sick after, his guts churning in his stomach as he watches Warner calmly and confidently walk away to the kitchen sink. He imagines him washing his own red blood off his hands and immediately longs to retch. One glance over his shoulder, and Warner turns his back. John catches the look and miscalculates everything, the wry smile his way, more of a maniacal grin if anything, and the casual saunter away from him. John stares and then eyes the screen door, leading out to the front porch, to the dark night on an overstretch of land, to an escape.

Without thinking, he bolts.

The latch on the door sticks for a split second, and his heart nearly stops until the cool night air hits his face. Afterwards he does not care where his feet land as he runs as long as they take him far away from a place where he would probably never see the light of day again. Spying headlights in his peripheral, John pushes himself harder, a small thought wishing he had taken the keys to the car. He wishes a million things in that moment, but his mind and his feet betray him, crash in on themselves, tripping over something in the darkness, and he goes down, hard.

John moans pained, once, and hears the heavy footfall of boots on soft earth, much too heavy to be considered Warner’s. Hands, far too big, grab at his trembling forearms, hoist him up, drag him away, drag him back, back to the house. He fights them off, shrieks muffled as one encloses roughly over his mouth, bites down as hard as he can into the palm. Someone, a man, roars behind him, curses, and wraps both arms around him, finishing what was intended. John cries out futilely as he is practically carried back inside and thrown against the wall.

Stinging pain hits his shoulder and travels from his neck down to his spine. John is left to his own devices for mere, useless seconds as the large man, the one that grabbed him, stalks to the front door, slams it shut, and locks it. When he turns, John almost cowers further into the wall. A man of at least six feet, he stands, leering down at his prey with something of an animalistic snarl. His long, greasy, shaggy dark hair hides most of his face in shadow, but it makes him appear much more threatening, something well intended.

“Thanks, Root.” Warner’s voice breaks through the huffs and grunts and John’s agonized whines as he continues to nurse his shoulder.

With a sound like a growl, the man called Root says, “Thought he would be more… pliant.”

Warner snickers and steps away from the sink, advancing slowly on John. “You,” he begins, wetting his lips like a lion to a gazelle, “have been a _very rude guest_.” John gulps. He shakily stands, but Root is upon him in seconds with a hand to his throat, not hard or pressing, just secure. Fixed. Two lions that have him surrounded.

“Don’t move another inch,” the larger man orders menacingly, and John freezes, afraid to move, to swallow, to even look him in the eyes. He looks instead from Root to Warner and feels himself grow smaller and smaller under their predatory gaze. He almost seems to shrink and mimes a struggle. The hand presses down. A warning.

“You know,” Warner thinks aloud, “he looks kind of pretty like this now.” His dark eyes rake over John from head to toe, and the grin widens, showing teeth. It makes John’s skin flush, makes his ears and face grow hot, and his breath quickens when the hand presses down further.

“You think so?” Root muses, smoothing a thumb over John’s quivering Adam’s apple. “He’s so small and easy.” John’s voice falls weakly in the resemblance of a panicked whine.

“Sh, sh, sh!” Warner hisses in harsh rebuke. “I was willing to go at a slower pace once we arrived but…” Suddenly, John hears the familiar _shnng!_ and flashes wide eyes at the man brandishing a switchblade from his pocket that he had been hiding there. “…you seem like you want to move things along, huh, angel.”

John wriggles and finds his voice finally though it comes out shaken. “Please, let me go.”

“He sounds so sweet begging like that,” Root simpers mockingly, and John can barely duck from the hand that reaches to smooth the blonde hair from his brow. “Makes me hard.” John jerks but is held firm. The man feels like steel merely from the hand against his throat; he can hardly budge an inch.

Warner grunts in agreement and fingers his blade thoughtfully. “I wonder what he would sound like if I fucked him with this.” John starts to cry softly. “No, no, no. None of that. I won’t hurt you.” Warner’s grin returns as he tucks the knife back into his pocket. “Much.”

_One finger was all it took, and John melted into the pillows and sheets, sucking in a deep breath and letting it out in a shuddered sigh. A soft moan finished him off as a warm palm smoothed up his tummy and chest, fingertips stroking the gentle brushstrokes of the kanji tattoo beneath his breastbone. His parted lips formed into a smile, and lips met his lower jaw, mouthing their way down, caressing his throat. Such a gesture sent pleasurable tingles down his arms and spine, and he shivered and squirmed beneath the hands and lips and body hovering over him just when another finger made its way inside. It ushered a high moan out of him this time, hardly manly, but the mouth and hands continued to worship him._

_When another one went in, it started to sting._

The sting becomes a burn when he comes to, and the burn seers through his flesh deep inside like razors, mangling his insides. John wakes with a scream, and his next instinct is to flail his limbs and free himself from what keeps him pinned to a mattress that smells of mold. The headboard, instead, rocks and slams into the wall with numerous loud thuds, and the ropes that wound his wrists raw hold firm and fast. A heavy blow against the back of his already spinning head cuts off his shrieks, ending them without so much as a feeble whimper. The burn deep within him continues in erratic, wild thrusting motions that rock him back and forth in violent, vicious greed.

“Shut him up, will you?” Root’s voice breaks through. “He is ruining this for me.”

Face slammed into the pillow so he can hardly breathe, John forces his head to turn, bleary-eyed, and stares straight into the wild, devilish eyes of Warner, knelt level with him. Warner smiles evenly at the blood, sweat, snot, and tears smeared on his pretty, perfect face, now crumbled in sobs and anguish, grasps his jaw, and presses his blade against his cheek. His smile widens as those wet, raw lips quiver in fear and pain, and he kisses them, relishing the noise of protest that breaks from the back of John’s throat. When he pulls away, he chokes back a sob.

“Much better,” Warner croons, tucking a stray lock of hair behind his ear and kissing his temple next. John attempts to shy away, but the grip on his jaw tightens, and Warner’s voice grows dark, dry, ominous. “Be a good boy.” A strip of duct tape keeps him silent then and, “It’s my turn soon.” With something of disgust, he lets his head flop back against the pillow with a dull thump, and John’s pained, muffled moans continue each time Root ruthlessly fucks into him. With the blows on his back, arms, and shoulders, they reduce to mere sobs until finally, finally the man above him finishes with a broken, satisfied grunt and groan.

Raw pain washes over John when he pulls out, nearly making him sick, but he swallows it down, dreading the next twisted participant. He hears the unbuckling of a belt. Someone approaches and viciously pulls his pants down the rest of the way, and his whines raise in pitch. No, he wants to scream.

“Turn him over.”

_The room was dark, throwing everything within Michael’s bedroom into a dark shade of blue, black and blue, cold colors that made him feel so lonely, but tonight he hardly felt that way at all._

_Michael had been flung down on his back on the side of the bed, legs hanging over and being spread gently by lovely, long-fingered hands, black-painted nails, a mop of messy blonde hair coming into view when he felt a featherlight kiss against his inner thigh. Michael sucked in a breath, almost whimpered and glanced down, raising his head from the sheets to catch sight of the prettiest man in the world fondling his balls and lowering his mouth down. Inside was wet and warm and inviting, and John hummed, sending the tremors straight to Michael’s groin, who in turn groaned loud enough for anyone next door to hear. He flung his head back against the mattress of the bed and writhed, twisting his fingers in the sheets and feeling the hands at his hips smooth up his tummy, push his shirt further up to expose more of his abdomen and chest._

_Michael’s chest heaved and stuttered as he neared completion much too soon; no one had ever made him come that fast, and Michael whined, gasping out short breaths as he felt himself release right down this pretty man’s throat._

_“Fuck, sorry…” Michael reddened, sitting up and watching John thumb a bit of his seed from the corner of his mouth._

_“Jeez,” he giggled. Getting up, he swung his legs over to straddle Michael’s waist, pushing him back down, keeping him pinned, keeping him needy. “I can make you come again,” John shrugged with a playful grin._

_“I’m sure you can.”_

_“Want me to fuck you now?” If Michael could get any redder. He nodded, and John merely continued, “I’ll fuck you so sweetly. Come all over you, but I promise I’ll be a good boy and clean it up, every last drop.”_

_Seemed promising, seemed ideal, but Michael had one last request. “As long as I get to fuck you later.”_

_John teased him by pretending to think, but he didn’t appear to be opposed to the idea. In his ear, breathily, he sighed, “Why not?” and Michael moaned, sighing himself at the glorious sensation of John’s glossy lips mouthing wetly down his throat and the side of his neck. He reached his chest, pulling up his shirt a little more to marvel at the beauty beneath. John was never really one for chest hair, but the soft patch of auburn hair in little wisps on Michael’s chest that greatly contrasted with his obvious dyed black hair made him long to catch them in his teeth and pull. Instead he placed a tender kiss in the middle and moved to his nipple, flicking his tongue out and teasingly licking at it. His thumb brushed over the other, making Michael squirm and whine some more._

_“You’re incredibly fun to tease,” John remarked._

John cannot really feel the pain anymore. Each thrust is like a wash of something foreign and vile inside of him. He looks up at the perpetrator with dull, dreamless eyes, mouth longing to open but taped shut, the sweat and tears and whatever else sliding down, leaving something of a metallic taste in his mouth, bitter and filled with resentment. They have him in a sort of cruelly bound frog-tie, hands tied over his head, legs open and bent for easy access. Lungs fill with air through his nostrils, but each breath is numbing against the sharp jabs. Above him is the smirk, the tattoo with a goat and pentacle glaring evilly down at him, the long, dark hair, stringy and reeking of his sweet cologne now noxious to John. Hands, fingernails rake down his chest, his tummy, draws a high moan out of him and then nothing. Past that is the glare of the bedroom light, the string of the switch swaying with the constant rocking of the bed.

“He’s gone silent.”

The statement is not one of concern, just a fact. When Warner finishes and pulls out of him, John catches the glimpse of his blood on his softening cock and almost wants to scream again. But he refuses to. He refuses to even move. Someone grabs a tuft of his hair, raises his head, lets it fall back against the pillows carelessly. He makes a small sound and remains still.

When they close the trunk of the car, darkness swallows John and he drifts once more.

_Michael_ _always fell asleep on his side now; it was looking at John just before his eyes closed, what gave him sweet dreams for the rest of the night, and he would wake up on his stomach, his lover straddling his waist, lips tickling the back of his neck, begging for morning sex._

_Things falling apart._

_Michael woke up lying on his stomach as usual, but John had already left the bed, the dent in the mattress righting itself quicker than the last time. It became the norm really, a lonely feeling, a longing feeling when John would leave a fresh cup of coffee by his side of the bed and then leave for work. Didn’t matter if he had the night shift or not; John simply didn’t want to stall for emotional matters, matters that they both refused to acknowledge. Michael missed him most of the time by nearly sleeping the day away, and when he actually was awake to wish him a good day, that’s all it was._

_“Have a nice day.”_

_“Mmhm…”_

_Another uneventful day of hardly speaking to one another._

_Today, however, something in Michael forced him awake, and he sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and mumbling something at John to get him to stay. The latter looked almost hopeful when Michael called his name, and he turned to face him, those large eyes searching for anything else to get him to stay a little bit longer. Or perhaps he was scared they’d fight again, over the same reason Michael wanted him to stay in the first place. Sometimes he wished he had never brought it up, never ever asked the question, the daunting question in the first place._

_“Late shift again?” Michael sounded like he was complaining, but John knew he was trying to make the best of it considering their situation._

_“’Fraid so,” he replied nonchalantly, or as disinterestedly as he could but Michael caught a hint of exhaustion in his voice. He didn’t want to talk about it anymore. Nothing more to really say about it; Michael could rant if he wanted to, but he knew John didn’t want to hear it anymore. He didn’t want to listen to him anymore. He already had sexual harassment and the eyes of other men to keep him wary, to add to his list of trials in this thing called life._

_“All right,” Michael mumbled, turning back over, face in his pillow._

_“O-kay.”_

_This time John sounded more than resigned, and if Michael hadn’t caught the eye roll then maybe the way he bristled at John would not have caused the unfortunate door slam. And perhaps a few more tears from last night. Michael took a sip of his coffee and almost felt bad. It was not like any of this was his fault anyway._

_At least he tried to make himself believe that._

The chill of the unforgiving night air forces him to stir from unpleasant dreams to a much more unpleasant reality. John cracks open aching, dry eyes to total darkness and shivers from the cold. He vaguely remembers the way they carried his body out of the trunk and dumped him along the side of the road without a thought or a sideways glance. Dumped him like old baggage, soiled and used. John huddles in a feeble position in the dirt, trembling and prepared to cry again, but nothing comes. All tears had been washed down his cheeks and left to dry, cracked and made to be remembered. Coughing wetly, John grimaces with a short whine at the sharp pain at his ribs and spine. His hands gingerly nurse his abdomen as he struggles to rise to his feet. It is then that he realizes he is naked, near frozen and naked with fingertips and toes going from red to white, white and numb, some parts turning a bruising purple. Vulnerable and desolate, he hugs himself, stands bent at the waist, and shivers, beginning to make his way down the dark road.

As he moves, he feels pain, raw, blistering pain all over his body, deep, deep inside, and in those agonizing moments, he cannot bring himself to take another step. Each breath comes out shuddered and raspy, and the lump forms once more in his throat. He swallows it down defiantly, though. He has to walk out of here. He has to. Now that he is still alive. He just wishes he had some clothes to keep him warm through the night. Even at this rate, he doubts he will remain alive come daybreak.

By some miracle however, he hears sweet relief, something that both fills him with elation as well as fear. Elation of rescue, to return to the land of the living. Fear that who would be behind the wheel of the car driving up would be somehow worse than his attackers.

Headlights beam from behind him, and the noise of wheels on gravel roll up with it. The strength of the light nearly makes him go blind as he turns toward the car that slowly pulls up by his side, and he flinches, bringing up a trembling arm to shield his eyes. The soft, mechanical hum of the window going down almost vibrates in his ears, and then John hears it.

“Jesus H. Christ,” says the man. “What the fuck happened to you?”

John blinks dumbly and stares. The man stares with what looks like genuine concern etched into his handsome face, side-swept blonde hair decked in a sort of mohawk and a few tendrils hanging carelessly over his dreamy-looking eyes. He speaks again, a calming voice like syrup. “You look frozen. I’ve got some extra clothes in the back.”

Rather than jump into the passenger side to escape the harsh, ever-present cold, John stays frozen, literally, where he stands, hearing the trunk open, jumping slightly when it slams shut. Crunching footsteps inch closer, and John is met with piercing yet insistent eyes, blindly grasps warm, clean clothes passed to him. He struggles to get into the cargo pants, making small, pained noises that he hopes the man cannot hear as he makes his way to the driver’s seat of the vehicle. As he puts on the slightly larger t-shirt in the comfortably warm car, more warmth surrounds him, and he settles into the seat with something of a shuddered sigh of relief. John swallows; it’s hard to go down, all cutting and dry.

“Thank you,” he tries in a soft yet raspy voice.

The man nods once, the concern having melted away into suspicion. “Where to?”

John bites his lower lip and hesitates. Like before, he decides to just show him the way, and his rescuer accepts that, putting the gearshift into drive and taking off. Nestling deeper in his seat, John wishes he could just sleep; the waves of exhaustion wash over him, the gentle heat from the car. The moment he feels himself nodding off, he jolts awake, and eyes are on him, not as cold as the eyes that stalked him but on him like a hawk, enough to make him feel nervous.

“So what the hell happened to you?”

The question startles him fully awake and he mutters out a short answer, “I was attacked.”

“Do you need to go to the police?”

John smells second-hand smoke. The man inhales deep and then lets the smoke, heavier than vapor, waft throughout the whole of the car. The stale scent of cigarettes, old car smell. John wrinkles his nose, but he shakes his head, no. What would they do for him. “Just home,” he murmurs.

The man suddenly snorts. “You were attacked but you don’t need to go to the police.” John spies the small sneer. “What? So it was your fault?”

“What?” John asks breathlessly.

“So it was your fault you were ‘attacked’,” he goes on, voice growing darker and crueler by the second. “Leading them on. Playing with their feelings.”

John’s lower lip quivers as he stammers out, “W-why are you saying this?”

“What exactly did you do to make someone ‘attack’ you?” he sneers, voice now accusing. “What?”

The car screeches to a halt, and John lurches forward, gripping the dashboard and glancing fearfully at the man now turning the key off in the ignition and yanking it out abruptly. The familiar, ominous _click_ resonates in his ears, and he stiffens, eyes remaining at the front and not daring to glance to the side again. He does not need to. He stares down the barrel of the gun in his peripheral and sucks in a sharp breath.

“Because you’re a slut,” the man spits venomously. “Now get out of my car. _Slut_.”

With suddenly inept fingers, John opens the door and gets out onto the unforgiving road, prepared to make a run for it. The quick, almost amused command keeps his feet solid to the ground; he feels the gun trained on him. “No. Stay where you are.” He does not have to look behind to know that it is there. Heavy footsteps follow close behind, and a rough hand turns him around. Hearing his heart pound deafly in his ears, John opens his mouth to speak, beg, scream but finds his voice caught, lodged permanently in his throat. Like steel pincers, the hand presses down into his shoulders, a silent order that sends him reluctantly to his knees with a soft whimper. Finally protest escapes his lips.

“Please,” John sobs, the gravel meeting his knees for the second time this night.

“ _Stay still_ ,” and another treacherous click.

As he stays there knelt on the ground, weeping softly, the man above him breathes heavily, raspy, hungry breaths, and that is when he regrettably notices the rather large bulge in his jeans. A pitiful sound breaks from his throat at the realization that he is expected to bring it out and pump it to completion, but John remains immobile where he kneels, and his hands hang uselessly at his sides. The command however, comes as he dreads it.

“Take it out.”

Tearfully, John looks up. “Please don’t make me,” he begs.

“ _Take it out_.”

A choked sob comes next, and this time John’s eyes remain on the ground while both small hands reach up to obey. The cock is heavy in his palms, glaring red and angry at him, and all it takes is a good few strokes before it stands erect and waiting. John bites hard on his quivering lip, so hard he can taste blood, a gamey, metallic taste in his mouth he had tasted with Root on top of him. Then Warner. It is raw in his mouth, and when he swallows, John feels the bile build up deep in the pit of his stomach. It comes to boil at the hand pushing his head forward, at the barrel of the gun pressing into his temple. He moves forward, opens his mouth, revolted by the deep sigh the man makes as his lips wrap around.

John’s jaw aches. It is rough, and the man pushes in nearly as deep as he can go, not giving, and not caring to give, any thought that John will not be able to take it. Every moment feels like an hour to him, and he wonders if he is already dead and watching himself continue to take this abuse. The man hits him with his weapon, snapping him back to a reality in which he would rather be dead.

“Suck it like you fucking mean it,” the man’s lidded eyes glare lazily down at him, satisfied with the undignified position. Hand smooths the hair from his eyes condescendingly and then gives a harsh tug. Like a slut. The same hand slides down the front of his shirt, teases him, explores him, violates him. John lets out a muffled whine of protest. His touch feels almost as dirty as theirs, and he longs to retch. “That’s it… Watch the teeth…”

John ponders over whether or not he has the courage to bite down and accept his fate in the aftermath.

“Now get off me.” John’s body hits the ground like glass, and he is forced to look upon his new attacker, vulgarly jacking off, directing it at him with those piercing, threatening eyes and that cruel, smirking mouth. “I’m going to come all over you, you filthy, fucking slut.” His lips are wet, parted, cheeks tinged pink from exertion. The foul, sickly warmth of his seed hits his cheek, throat, parts of the clothes he wears, and John curls into a feeble position as when he was found, wishing it would be over. The sharp kick to his ribs tells him otherwise.

“Touch yourself.”

“What?” John weeps, wishing harder this time. “Please, no…”

“You fucking heard me right, you little slut. Pull down your pants and touch yourself. Let me know how much you loved my big cock in your mouth.”

John sobs openly now at the click of the gun and complies, getting back on his knees and reluctantly pulling down the pants once given to him. He takes ahold of his flaccid cock and begins to stroke, but the monster above him suddenly comes up with a new idea.

“Hands and knees,” he orders in a growl, and John glances up with wet eyes, lips parted in a silent plea. The former does not relent, though. “ _Hands and knees_. Keep stroking.” The sigh that comes next makes John shudder, and he regrettably feels himself get hard. Much to his dismay he moans, and the monster hears it.

He does not expect the barrel of the weapon pressing into his ass. John gives a loud cry and tries to wriggle away, but the man only succeeds in grabbing him and holding him still while shoving it further inside. “Hold still or I’ll pull the goddamn trigger.” John believes him. He has to bite back another shriek when he begins fucking him with it, slow but sure, and the tears flow. He doesn’t want to die like this. “Keep stroking.”

An embarrassing noise breaks from the back of his throat when he comes, and he automatically hates himself for it.

_He left him more bruised than before, assuming he’d freeze._

_As he walked_ _however_ _, it started to snow, the last final slight from the world towards him. It fell in small frozen particles, spitting to the earth below and making his feet smart._ _As it formed to the ground, it formed as ice, numbing his feet and forcing him into a hobble._

_He did not know how he did it._ _Countless times, he thought about giving up, and his vision of lying against the pavement of the frozen road returned to him._ _Once the city lights blurred into view_ _however_ _, he nearly collapsed from exhaustion. From relief._

_Instead he collapsed in his arms._

Michael runs the shower with frantic haste and waits for it to get hot. He grabs towels, soap, warm clothes, anything for John, his John huddled in a shivering heap on the warm, carpeted floor of his living room. When he finally returns, he is not moving, wrapped in as many blankets as Michael could find from head to toe. His lover kneels by his side, holds up his head, receives the best response he can get, and carries him to the bathroom, murmuring sweet nothings and gentle assurances in his ear. With a muddled mindset, John feels he would have nestled his face into the crook of Michael’s shoulder, breathing in his scent, hiding himself in the gentle warmth of his body, but he doesn’t. He stays frozen in his arms, only clinging when he needs to as he is righted on his feet and gingerly steps into the tub.

When Michael sees the bruises littered across John’s back, shoulders, and thighs and clenches his fists. He takes a step forward to hold him steady and perhaps get in and wash him himself, but John turns to look over his shoulder at him and the look alone is enough for him to back off.

“If you need me…” he starts. John only nods once.

The water from the shower sears and smarts in areas on his body he would care not to think about at the moment, but John winces all the same from the ache and pain. As he bends down to lower himself to sit, a sob escapes his lips, but he bites his tongue afterwards, gripping the edges of the tub until his knuckles turn white. Once he is used to it, once the pain grows dull, he scrubs his skin and scrubs it raw until it is red and blotchy, until the scent of the three of them lingers no more on any place of his body. He cannot get rid of neither the bruises nor the damage they have done inside, though.

John only prays that the sound of the running water keeps Michael from hearing him cry.

“You have to tell me what happened,” Michael whispers softly when he’s turned out the lights. John feels the thumb rubbing over his bicep and stiffens, but when he shifts in bed to look at him, he is met with soft eyes, flooded with concern. Behind that forest of those eyes is something darker though, something longing to know who it was that did this to him, to John, to _his_ John. “Maybe not tonight or tomorrow, but someday.”

John lets familiar lips press to his forehead, and the voice, husky and honeyed, turns suddenly dark as Michael murmurs, “They’ll never touch you again.”

_He checked the voltage, and it gave such a sharp zap when he pressed the button that he smirked behind the butt of his cigarette, flicked the ash, and set it down on the table decidedly. He looked to John, busy_ _with a tattoo gun, the buzz and whir of it drowning out thought. His mouth moved automatically as he steadied the tool to the top of his foot. He barely winced, hardened more so this time since the night he came home to him looking like a corpse, a shadow. A healing bruise on his back peeked out from underneath his crop-top, and it was Michael’s turn to harden, eyes flaming, remembering what he told him._

_“You certain you know where this place is?”_

_The buzzing and whirring ceased, and John looked up, his own eyes pensive but more than certain. “Of course.” Teeth biting into his lower lip in concentration, he resumed his task._

_“Duct tape?”_

_“In the bag.”_

_Michael produced it as well as the clamps, car battery, rope, pliers, and something else. A large metal pipe, more phallic in shape protruded from the duffel;_ _it was heavy resting in his hands, and Michael fingered it, brooding._

_“_ _This is new,” he said thoughtfully. His response was a short grunt against the sound of the gun, so he approached him, got down on his level, and caressed his cheek so that he would at least look at him. “Hey.” John stared with that same empty, bleak gaze as he had when he first opened the door. “I’ll kill them all for you. And I’d get away with it.”_

_Finally John’s face broke into a sad little smile to which he replied, “No you wouldn’t. Come here.” Michael leaned in for a kiss, and the latex of John’s gloved hand stuck to his cheek._ _When they broke away, his lipstick was smeared, and Michael reached up to thumb a bit away for him._

_“I’ll do anything for you.”_

Looking back at the course of events, John marvels at how simple it all was.

Michael pulls up to the place of reckoning, and John instantly stiffens but does not let him see it. His mind is made up no matter what his body remembers. When he looks to his lover, dark hair spilling out over his eyes which are swathed like a band in black eye shadow, he relaxes, grabs ahold of the taser from the duffel bag and opens the passenger side. Michael’s hand on his arm stalls him just to turn and glance back at him questioningly.

“Kiss me,” he commands, but it comes out as a question, which John obliges. It is a full kiss, sloppy, wet, searing, and he feels in control, knowing that Michael is passing it to him. He silently thanks him for it, and, gripping the taser tighter with Michael shouldering the duffel, they both exit the car and stalk towards the front porch, the porch where he was dragged up before. Michael stays a little farther behind but close enough as John presses the doorbell. The giant, Root answers, and John holds his breath.

He smirks, the cruelty of it forming slow and easy on his face. “Hello, princess. Back for more?”

“Perhaps,” John replies coolly, “but I don’t think you’ll enjoy it.”

The taser snaps to life, and Root goes down hard on his back like a board.

John hears Warner get up from his seat, the chair screeching across the floor, the knife scraping from the holder, but Michael rushes past him and reaches the tall devil faster that he can brandish his weapon. The man goes down as well without a word, only a choked, stiff sound deep from the back of his throat, and Michael sighs satisfactorily. When he bends down to grab Warner’s feet though, John stops him.

“Grab him first,” he gestures to Root, lying there moaning. “I’ll take care of this one. Meet me downstairs.”

The same bed as before stands in the same position in the same basement where they once had him, taking him in the same way, rough and cruel and vicious. John’s eyes flit to it, and he immediately drags Warner by the wrists toward one leg of it and zip-ties him to it. It’s all procedural. He pats him down, finds the switchblade, uses it to make a nick at his shirt collar, rips the fabric down the middle. He tugs his pants down sharply, takes the underwear with them, socks and boots as well. As he lays there naked, one thought flashes through John’s mind. He’s vulnerable now. John could kill him if he wants. He brushes the thought aside as soon as it comes, though. There is meat on the slab and he will not allow it to spoil. He zip-ties his feet together lastly.

Michael follows close behind, dragging Root’s unconscious body with him and hauling him over to the adjacent leg of the bed.

“Remove his clothes first.” John hands him the blade. “Here.”

Michael takes it without a word and then grabs him by the front of his shirt and kisses him before their captives. He swallows a moan, caresses John with gloved hands, and lets him go, grinning at the debauched expression on his face. The smile he receives in return is angelic, loving, the far opposite from what they are about to do. Michael watches John reach for the pliers.

When Warner comes to, he is alone with an unconscious Root, lying in the same position he is, naked and zip-tied to the bed. He does not admit he is afraid at first; at least he can scream, in anger if anything. They duct taped Root’s mouth shut, and he wonders what the significance of that is, wonders if it is any indication of who is going first. Going first for what, he is uncertain, but Warner remembers seeing a glimpse of the young man he took home and another, shorter and quicker, coming after him with an electric touch. He went down after that; however, he is home still, trapped downstairs in the basement he had originally brought his victim. He knows why he is here in the same place, and his blood runs cold at the realization that this man was never going to let him get away with this. Somehow he survived. Warner screams again.

John and Michael both hear it and offer knowing glances to each other, grim and prepared. As they make their way downstairs, the screams get louder, and John reaches Warner first.

“Good,” he deadpans, despite the cacophony of sound against his own voice. “You’re alive.”

If he tries to scowl at him, if he tries to make himself seem menacing, he fails, and John watches coolly; it seems like he could smile, and the corners of his mouth twitch, but he doesn’t and instead advances toward the duffel bag lying by the bed. On the sheets of newspaper lying around them, Warner watches John place the various tools from the bag onto it and swallows hard, especially at the sight of the car battery.

“What…”

“Oh, don’t worry,” John interrupts with that familiar, doe-eyed expression on his lovely face. “I won’t use all of those on you. Yet. You see, I thought the night was going to end with that little stunt you pulled at the bar. But you knew, didn’t you, that forcing fellatio, which is disgusting enough, wasn’t all you had in mind. Was it?”

Warner swallows thickly. “I…”

“I’ve changed my mind,” John states grimly and rips off a piece of duct tape. “I’d rather not hear you speak anymore.” Pressing the tape over his mouth securely, he rasps into his ear, “Be a good boy. It’ll be your turn soon.” Warner utters a muffled whimper. To Michael, he orders, “Get him up.”

Obediently, Michael stalks over to Root with the taser in his hand, and the larger man jolts awake with an incoherent shriek.

“Since he fucked me first, he gets it first.” John gets up, grabs the phallic-looking metal pipe and advances on Root threateningly. The man attempts to wriggle out of his way with muffled protests, but John, small yet capable John, snatches his bound legs, lifts them, and starts to shove the pipe in dry. Root screeches. Warner begins to sweat profusely.

John’s face scrunches up in disgust, so with a savage kick, the pipe goes in further.

“Pay attention!” Michael growls at Warner, and with a zap, he does so. “You took something precious from me, so we’ve decided to never let you forget it.” Reaching for the tattoo gun, his voice grows lower and more dangerous with each syllable, “I think you should go first, and I think this one will add perfectly to the rest of your shit.” He indicates the array of tattoos, and, ignoring Warner’s increasingly loud whines, dips the needle into the ink and lets it buzz and whir to life. Warner tries to scream, but nothing escapes the moldy darkness of the basement. All he sees is Michael, hovering over him and straddling his waist with the gun, eyes shrouded in black glaring down at him. He starts to struggle.

“Hold still,” Michael hisses. “I’ve never done this before. And there will be blood.”

Against the mechanical resonance of the tattoo gun and Warner’s pain-filled screams, John focuses his attention on Root and says simply, “You’re next.”

_Rapist pig._

It fits. Identically.

Fidgeting and wriggling like a couple of meat sacks hanging in a slaughterhouse, both Warner and Root protest in a babbling manner, sobbing over their permanent punishments pathetically. Beads of blood form and slide from John and Michael’s handy work, the both of whom exchange satisfied looks as they stand, towering over them. In the aftermath, John passed the used pipe to Michael who administered it to Warner, and the latter shakes a little more than his counterpart, his wounded whines sounding more and more like an animal’s. And how he so enjoyed rutting like one.

“We’re not done yet,” Michael utters cruelly, his grip on Warner’s jaw tightening like steel.

John straddles Root, kneeing into his cock so much that it hurts. “I think I’ll start with the pliers on you.” The man sweats tears; he can almost sweat blood.

“Guess that leaves us with the car battery, big boy,” Michael tells Warner with a short laugh. Fingering with the clamps carelessly, he asks, “Nipples? Or nuts?”

“Nuts.”

John grabs the pliers.

_Down the street in the bustle of the city, a man with a short-cropped blonde mohawk and piercing eyes pushed through the crowd and accidentally bumped shoulders with a young man, pretty with lighter blonde hair. Their eyes locked for a brief moment in passing, his attempting to grasp the memory that failed to reach his mind and the other’s looking away nonchalantly. As he walked_ _away further, he could not help it and glanced back but the pretty thing was gone. Out of sight but definitely not out of mind. The man walked faster._

_Close behind, Michael and John sauntered his way, one passing the gun to the other._

_“May I kill him?”_

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know what you thought! <3


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